


tear apart and throw away

by Ms_Anger_Management_Issues



Category: Devilman (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Angst and Tragedy, Bottom Asuka Ryo, Character Death, Dark, Demon Sex, Devilman: Crybaby (2018), Dystopia, Falling In Love, First Time, Graphic Description, Heavy Angst, Hermaphrodites, Love/Hate, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Other, POV Asuka Ryo, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Swearing, Vaginal Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 02:55:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13824990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ms_Anger_Management_Issues/pseuds/Ms_Anger_Management_Issues
Summary: Ryo would hate him, maybe even kill him, would bury his dejected corpse in the box like a dog's bones, but he just sits silently and looks at him, light blue and airy, while he tears his own heart, beautiful, magnificent, and smears bright blood on his face.It's disgusting.Ryo is in love with him.





	tear apart and throw away

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [оторви да выброси](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13756044) by [Ms_Anger_Management_Issues](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ms_Anger_Management_Issues/pseuds/Ms_Anger_Management_Issues). 



In the beginning, he only has golden spheres, bright and vicious, arrows and a small weak planet under his feet, and he grabs the grieved earth with his fingertips and draws his arms upward, into the dark, violent and seeping. In the beginning, he only has himself and the memories that he had dreamed of, and the echoes of their muffled cries, the signs of his own nightmares. And then they grab him and put him straight - and then he has a name. He has Akira.

 

It's not funny and not even interesting: Akira is weak and miserable. He wholly consists of sharp angles, of elbows and knees, and his stupid face is always wet, and sometimes he irritates Ryo so extensively, so abundantly. It’s unbearable, and all Ryo wants is to grab his knife and slash his cheeks, puffy and swollen from tears. Akira asks for forgiveness, Akira apologizes for his existence itself and gently touches Ryo’s shoulder, caresses something twitching and _alive_ on the other side of his blue eyes. And there’s the plan descending on Ryo out of nowhere, in the rain, - he had it sleeping in his womb for, it seems, many thousands of years. Out of nowhere, on a cliff in the sea, where the tidal waves brought Ryo home. A weakling would’ve died there, a pushover would’ve stayed there, but Ryo closes the cycle and starts from the end. He doesn’t turn around in response, and just leaves with Jenny, and with a new day a new malice is born, and there’s such power in him, such fury and dignity - it's just breathtaking.

 

His gaze is burning, but he is calm. Akira, who hasn’t changed at all, smiles at him and his _"Ryo-chan!"_ offends Ryo’s ears, and only his Glock 17 in the pocket warms Ryo's soul. Subsequently, it’ll seem to him that the real Akira Fudo, the only Akira Fudo who truly, deeply loved him - the only one who _ever_ loved him in this world - died at that time, on the Sabbath, in a puddle of his own snot, worthless and disgusting. Ryo likes this brand new Akira much more, and he’s not used to running from the fire. He starts his sports car, goes pedal to the metal and revels in his creation – the king of demons, _goodness gracious_. And if before there were no one better or worse than Amon, then Ryo will show ‘em. Ryo will show ‘em all.

 

Slowly, patiently he rips off Akira’s skin - the cover of the hellish beast, and he tears apart his wrapper of the warlord deliberately, too. Akira is still trembling in his death grip, suffocating and drowning in this body, too narrow for two, and Ryo is laughing, as if dipping him under the water. Until he himself can’t breathe. He just really wants to save Akira, rescue him, get to the truth, and he wants blood, give him _blood_ – there’s a high ringing of broken glass, and Ryo is looking for a human heart, picking the flesh with his perfect fingers. He’s so all white and pure, that even one look at him is painful, and his skin is colorless, smells sweet and pulsates maddeningly fast.

 

Akira quarters every demon with his bare hands, Akira clenches his teeth and exudes fire - he suffers terribly in the name of the Black Mass, and Ryo feels a little sorry for him, stroking his damp hair and caressing the dark lines on his face. Something slimy and cottony becomes a lump in Ryo’s raw throat when Akira leans toward him, but he prefers to distract himself and suddenly closes his laptop. Ryo is too proud to admit anything out loud, so he pushes pieces of fresh meat into Akira's mouth and watches eagerly as he swallows without chewing and licks his lips. Ryo’s pupils fatten at that, and there’s a shiver all over his spine.

 

Of course, there’s only that damned bitch in Akira’s mind who lives in the same house with him, and Ryo wants to squeeze him back harder, overturn his motorcycle from the bridge and drown him in his holy hatred. So that Ryo no longer had to pretend to be the right one, to be on the side of humanity, on the side of _good_. On Akira’s side.

 

Ryo’s world is as light and ephemeral as he himself, and it casts by the setting sun, gold and shiny, and exists only on his eyelids and chin. Akira suddenly leans over the railing and kisses him on the lips, lubberly so, and he disgusts Ryo the first two seconds. Then it's all just wetness and nothingness.

 

He thinks that whole Akira’s face is very warm, and that he, most likely, is not the first one Akira - or the creature that possesses him – kisses and licks with his tongue, and all of this is not important right now. Ryo throws his head back and closes his eyes, trying to decide where he should put his hands - he'd rather clutch at his neck with all his might. He'd rather grab him and wreck him, and break him in half with a short click and with an ocean of crimson red, but Akira just clings to him helplessly and whimpers plaintively into the kiss.

 

Crybaby. What a fucking crybaby.

 

Akira stinks of salt and sulfur, and Ryo endures this torture a little more and pushes him away - there are swollen spots on Akira’s forearms, and Ryo’s lungs are burning and as if a spell is flowing down his larynx. It’s still _nothing_.

 

At nights in heavy dreams, Ryo scatters nobody’s fresh pointy ribs and cuts out some fine pieces from delicate angelic necks - they sing him sad songs with their silken voices, merging in a chorus in the roar of Gehenna. Ryo takes their heads off the floral stems with his huge clerical blade, Ryo grinds their stiff pale bones and bathes in their lives, meaningless and taken away, - he’s their capricious prince, their child in disgrace. He personally disfigures, turning into a sieve, and defiling the corpse of Makimura Miki – she’s almost hallow, divinely beautiful in a dream, and she’s that rotten witch who took Akira from him. His visions are so real and so close to him that he wakes up with his arms outstretched, and there’s a cramp in his tender fists and a desperate desire to catch up, to violate, to kill - _oh heaven_ , how he craves. How he _thirsts_ for revenge.

 

Akira comes to him even when he doesn’t wait, looking everywhere and annoying Ryo, – Akira pushes him into the pool and jumps from above, presses him to the endless bottom and climbs up. Kisses him again. Ryo considers some possibilities to give him bloody nose with his foot in the cast or to gnaw out a part of the muscle on his cheek, to sip his cries, to tear his Adam's apple, but, unexpectedly for himself, Ryo discovers that now Akira’s kisses are pleasant and sugary. He becomes pliable and _hard_ , he doesn’t need oxygen neither down on the bottom nor up in the air, and he wraps Akira’s body with his legs and relaxes, sucking on his lower lip and slowly piercing his claws into his chest.

 

Akira doesn’t notice anything. Idiot.

 

More than splashes of translucent demonic lymph on the walls, than smelly guts, torn and pinkish, than smashed human heads, Ryo loves only to hit the target and to cause pain to everyone. And weapons, yes. This race has a so-so guns and knives, - Ryo gently strokes the cold forearm of the rifle, wipes off some mud from the muzzle and throws the shatters and splinters. He doesn’t care whose remnants are now lying at his feet - the whole planet originally belonged to him, and he won’t stop. He _can’t_.

 

Doesn’t take his gaze away from Akira in reflection. Just hits his head up against Akira’s stubbornness, not feeling anything. Only that ardent desire, that craving to murder – he wants to shoot down Akira’s dear Makimura right here, or maybe freshen her up alive. The same old primitive, oily, terrific anger soars in him, and Ryo surrenders and comes to his senses in time. It’s inadmissible luxury to go crazy now – it’s luxury and a commonweal, and Ryo isn’t on that bullshit.

 

Akira breaks in front of him and cries - _Lord Almighty_ , how unjustified, how often he cries! Ryo almost barfs from such a nasty sight, but behind his diaphragm something howls and itches, something sticks, convulsively shrinking. Among the masks of death and agonizing expectation, Ryo stumbles over hundreds of Akira’s muted _"I’m sorry"_ and _"forgive me, please"_ and kicks every last one off to the side - he himself doesn’t have a core inside and doesn’t need to. He turns on **_Rec_** in his raids with Akira and at some point he loses confidence, and shifts before instinct, and doesn’t understand what's wrong with him.

 

Perhaps this body is about sixteen years old, like Akira’s, and Ryo calls him by his name, hoarsely, quietly, - it’s funny, because he also gave him a name once. Akira growls, knocking down everything in its path, Akira suffers from a total underfuck and he’s on the awful rut, conflicting with his own mind and dropping saliva, and Ryo laughs at him. He laughs, even when Akira, all covered in thick yellow blood and dried cum, lifts him above the floor and shakes him like a porcelain doll. And then Ryo falls silent at once because Akira hurls him on the bed. Ryo isn’t his Silene to him, much more isn't his damned whore Makimura, but Akira attacks him with his lips, hot and hungry, touches him everywhere, and a resentment rises up deep down in Ryo’s chest – so strong, so unmerciful, like a scarlet moon, like a fluffy feathers that aren’t visible to anyone else. His strength is in a frenzy, his passion is in an ardor. And he’s, too, neither this nor that.

 

Akira exhales noisily and spreads Ryo’s legs wide apart, pulls off his clothes and freezes, amazed at the sight, - Ryo, snapped out of it, helps him, and for some reason it turns out that he’s not only hard and wet, but also soft, and languid, and feminine down there, and there’s a vision flying off on him from the ceiling. He feels the flawless wings everywhere - under his back, under his skin – twelve of them, _ah, almost in place_. But he says nothing, rising ever higher and not moving at the same time. Akira rubs against his labia, excited, famished, lies down between his long legs and the swollen tip of his dick slides off all over Ryo’s clitoris. For Ryo himself, this is an incredible discovery, and he listens to his own moans, and suddenly he has a velvety, gorgeous female breasts right there, in the place on his chest where only recently an empty hole was gaping, and Akira enters him, pressing in slow, and hisses from his body heat.

 

Ryo is like ashes and candles under him, Ryo fidgets uneasily on the sheets, and wriggles, and doesn’t know where this stupefying feeling is coming from - where he’s all moisty and covered with haze, where Akira is thrusting into him so nicely and rhythmically, or where his flesh is like a stone, bloodshot, leaking with precum. It seems that from everywhere at once. Ryo, all of a sudden, is fully aware that, if things keep on this way, he can easily get pregnant. The worst is that it’s Akira who’s fucking him _so well_ , it’s Akira - his creation, his enemy, his beloved, and the mere thought of it makes Ryo groan loudly, turn away. Akira becomes rigid, strains and peppers Ryo’s jawline with small kisses, clutches at his wrists and circles his tongue around his beige nipple, - Akira comes into him hard, body tense and hips stuttering, and out of blue there's so much of his fiery burst in Ryo’s maw that it’s splashing and rising up in his belly. Before he has time to recover and catch his breath, Akira slams in him balls deep, fondles his crystal knees and continues to pummel into him furiously – Akira’s cock is dragging against something inflated in his womb, and his frantic pace brings Ryo to an exhausting orgasm.

 

Ryo shivers with spasms, and he absorbs everything that is given to him - by Akira or by Amon. He straddles Akira and allows him to pierce himself again - his own dick, sticking up and soaking wet, drips with cum, and if this is Akira’s love, steamy, slippery, if this is his cruelty that repeatedly sprays deeper and deeper in Ryo’s vagina and remains there, warm and bubbling, Ryo is ready to take everything without a doubt.

 

Ryo sinks in this pleasure. Opens up to his true memories, loses his voice. Wipes the tears on Akira's face.

 

When his saturated Akira pours into him in the last time, like a rain, the sky color changes, and Ryo flings him off his ruined body - his inner thighs are slick and smooth, and he’s all slushy and slimy down there. Akira flips on the left side, but doesn’t remove his fingers from the reddish wrinkles of Ryo’s hole. He’s sleepy but he musters a question - why Ryo didn’t tell him about his body, and Ryo is once again tempted to dismantle his skeleton on the joints and devour him. It’s not so easy to return from oblivion.

 

The icy god braids his long golden hair, the icy god puts a deadly weapon into him - an insinuating tone, an affectionate victim, a fresh breeze. Ryo is born and then is dead countless times, levitating in the dugged out past and looking forward to the sparkling future. It turns out that he himself is a paradise, and that a succulent jungle is his cozy cradle, consisting of the torn thorax cages and burnt down matches. For a thousands years he has been rocked and lulled by the wise ocean, and now again he is legally taken to forgetfulness, he steps proudly into his possessions and carries resurrection on his back. His crown is heavy and invisible - he closes the ring and welcomes an imminent victory.

 

Keeping his eyes shut, Ryo listens to the ghost of touch – _it’s been a long time_. In front of him there’s a crybaby boy with his heart, tied and bound and sliced up, on the hem of his T-shirt. And Ryo looks at him emotionlessly - not a single drop appears on his serene face. He is overwhelmed by a fierce, all-consuming hatred of this world and its creator, but he reaches out in his turn, once again – he’s dazzling, he’s blinded.

 

Akira rushes at him just before the finale – Akira is here, along with the sunrise, with Makimura Miki's bloodless head in his hands, his Akira, who’s attached to his sorrow. A marvelous gift before the coming battle.

 

Ryo predicts his death, and the earth cracks by rapid explosions, fires and music of the apocalypse - a wonderful performance, a delight for the exiled prince. He condescendingly tolerates, while Akira mourns and buries everything human, dirty and defenseless, that was left in him, - a cemeteries and graves become him, and Ryo gloats flat out.

 

His shine is transcendental, almost unreal, - his fingers are shaking with overcoming rapture, and as the continents wither and fall apart from the nuclear bombs, Ryo commands his generals and attracts demons from all corners of the fading planet, like a magnet. The missiles approach him with a myriad of stars, and he splits everything around him under the barrel of his stern gaze. He soars up, and Jenny follows him, he falls into the epicenter of disasters and calamities, - _no_ , he is their original cause, he’s the mother of thunderstorms and the father of great tsunamis. And Akira, Akira is finally flaming with desire, finally wants to fight him, unequivocally feels an equal within him and lunges at him thoughtlessly, radiating genuine will to kill and to sow destruction further, even further than that...

 

Twenty years of war sweep faster than a single day. Twenty years of his grief come to naught – the carved feathers slope down, like rose petals, and he cocks his head either mockingly, or inquiringly, and Akira with his wrong, abnormal _"I love you, I love you"_ doesn’t reach him.

 

He can’t see anything, but not because of outbursts. There’s just nothing to be seen. He imagines a rustle of rusty leaves and stains on the dying sun, and his reverie is filled with only one form – it’s _him_ , that little boy, Akira Fudo, and he’s glowing and smiling, eclipsing him. Akira is with him, over and over again, on the cliff among the bloody sea, and they’re alone for the first time in their lives, and he’s himself with bitter tears in his eyes for the last time, and there’s _his Akira_ , only his. Akira, whom he loved all his life.

 

His Father slides His rough hand along his blazing cheek so tenderly, so clemently, as He descends from the upturned sky with all His impeccability, and he feels how the wounded, crumpled earth around him floods with endless light.

 

He’s all alone. Again.


End file.
